


As Pygmalion picks up his chisel

by mirry_morii



Series: St. Petersburg State Academy of Arts [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Art Student Otabek Altin, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Greek Mythology - Freeform, In Media Res, M/M, Mentions of Greek Mythology, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Otabek Altin, Professor Viktor Nikiforov, Pygmalion and Galatea, Yuri!!! on Ice Shit Bang 2017, it's T because people swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 07:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11962272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirry_morii/pseuds/mirry_morii
Summary: He is wavering, choking, a meaningless either-or. He’s here, today, walking on a bridge as winter dies around him. He’ll be here tomorrow, still walking down this bridge, kept straight only by the city burning at his back. He can’t, mustn’t, won’t look back, or else.A story where somebody finally finds what they're looking for. Written for the 2017 YOI SB.[ON INDEFINITE HIATUS]





	As Pygmalion picks up his chisel

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the lovely **merkitty** , without whom I would not have started this; **sabaix** , without whom I would never have thought of this; and **AlexWSpark** , without whom I would not have finished this. Additional thanks to **crescendotayuri** ; she's a wonderful artist _and_ a wonderful person! Seriously, guys, this fic wouldn't exist without you.
> 
>  **Later edit** : The story was supposed to be updated throughout the day. I apologise, but I am not sure when exactly, or if, I will get it done. It is no longer a problem of updating, but of me deeply disliking the final product. I apologise again for anyone who was waiting for updates.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Gouache** : A type of water-based paint. It is also known as opaque watercolour – gouache colours are more vibrant than watercolours, and are almost always opaque. They dry very quickly, and so the artist has to work swiftly and efficiently. Hard to remove (“lift” off the paper).

**A. Voronikhin Institute of Painting, Sculpting and Architecture.**

**St. Petersburg State Academy of Arts.**

**2016.**

 

**i: now, march twenty-seven, 7:43**

“The sculptor begins work by selecting a type of stone for carving,” Anton recites. His forehead, resting on laced fingers, sports an impressive furrowed brow as he struggles to make sense of his own messy Cyrillic. “The stone should fit the design as much as possible, great care has to be taken regarding the scaling of the work. See Michelangelo – stone itself as inspiration.”

Otabek has heard this particular routine for at least a few times now, but no one could accuse his roommate of not being thorough. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch, the flick of an unseen wrist pulling them upwards. He fishes out a stick of concentrated charcoal out of his pencil case, but the contents give out a muted clink in spite of his efforts. It seems to act as a catalyst for Anton’s rage.

“I _fucking_ hate this,” he growls as he throws his notes on the desk. Otabek could barely see the scratched wood, smothered as it was in stacks of notes and pictures of Renaissance art– _Leah, Moses,_ a scanned copy of what looked like an illustrated copy of _The Decameron_. Anton’s brow is further furrowed, a sharp crease between his eyes – _Cadmium Lemon/Phtalo Blue_. The lines of his mouth are an interesting contrast, plump lips pulled taut over the teeth underneath.

“It’s just fucking horrible,” he seethes, “what kind of sadist do you have to be to come up with weekly _surprise quizzes_?” His tongue rolls harshly around the words, sandpaper-like.  “It’s not a fucking surprise if everyone _fucking_ knows it’s coming.”

There might be a point to be made about what Anton’s preference to certain words of the English language has to say about him, but Otabek is not the one to judge. The nights of _his_ first year at _A. Voronikhin_ hadn’t been filled with blaring music and the clink of half-empty bottles of vodka – _В Питере - пить_ –, but rather drowned in color-coded notes and sorry excuses for meals. _Introduction to the Renaissance_ , currently serving as the bane of Anton’s existence, is a core module for all first-year students at the Institute; Otabek had his share of frustration towards its head coordinator’s penchant for surprises in the worst of situations.

“A bit early in the morning for so much swearing,” he remarks. His movements are fluid and sure when sharpening his charcoal, much unlike his words. “The shady details on lesser-known sculptors, he really likes those,” he adds as he reaches towards the window to blow the remaining charcoal to the wind.

**ii: then, -**

_“Now, Pygmalion is a very talented artist, secluded by his disdain of human nature. He creates the most exquisite ivory statue and falls in love with his work, some sort of poetic irony, I suppose. The gods take pity on him and bring this statue to life, they fall in love, obviously. They have a child. Ovid is quite clear on this happy ending of theirs.”_

**iii: now, 9:00**

He likes to think that he formally begins his morning at _Mitte_.

Spread between the first and second floor of a former apartment complex in the Admiralteysky District, _Mitte_ is a café with a bohemian feel to it. There are several couches covered with colourful pillows, and most of the chairs crowd the small balcony overlooking the Neva. They serve typical Russian food, play minimalist pieces on vintage turntables, and serve one of the best Turkish-style coffees in all of Saint Petersburg.

Even more important, _Mitte_ is quiet.

He comes here every other day, always early in the morning and always sat at the same table in the corner of the balcony. The usual patrons – students and St. Petersburg’s unique brand of starving artists – are either too busy or hung-over to crowd the eatery at these hours. Even if he often has the entire establishment to himself, he never actually works here. He makes a spectacle of pulling out his sketchbook and his pencils, laying them on the table next to his tea and whatever else he ordered from the menu. He stares at them silently, every morning, like clockwork. Then he turns to stare at the waking city.

( _A giant beast yawning, its mouth full of people._ )

“Oh, I like this one,” Sara says, suddenly appearing at his elbow.  He startles, turning towards her as if caught red-handed. She chuckles fondly, her voice pleasant and musical. The kind that makes you think of wind chimes and blossoms rustling in the wind.

She has been working at _Mitte_ for years – Sara is as constant as the quiet in the mornings. The first time he came here, Otabek found her perched atop a barstool, lazily spinning while tapping away on her phone. She had lifted her eyes then, settled them on him; her smile bloomed slowly like watercolours on paper – _Hello there, are you lost? What can I get you?_

Sara Crispino has been an enigma then, and she is still one now. Given that she works the morning shifts only, she has taken up the responsibility of acting as his personal waitress; first as a curiosity ( _You kind of remind me of my brother_ ), and then simply because she feels compelled to tease him at least three times a week ( _You’re really alike, but you’re much more quiet and certainly cuter!_ ).

“Is this your little sister?” she asks now, setting down the teapot and pulling a sketch out of his stack. “I didn’t know you had siblings,” she adds after spying another one.

“I don’t have a sister,” he says, firmly closing his sketchbook and gathering everything before she could take anything else. He looks up at Sara and he finds her looking right back at him, eyes alight with curious attention, a sketch still in her hands. There’s a smile pulling at the corner of her mouth, spelling the kind of trouble that he wanted no part of.

“Then?” she asks, the Russian softer and lilting. There is a constant air of mischief about her, a glint of steel peering from under feminine mannerisms and romantic accents.

“Just a sketch,” he denies. “Something I’ve done this morning to test my pencils.” Otabek stares back at her, hand extended for the paper she was currently holding captive. She pouts her _Carmine_ lips and it’s cute, but not nearly enough. She’s gouache, bold and vivid, endearingly opaque, tastefully loud. She is _jarring_.

“Sara, please,” he pleads firmly, a trace of impatience staining his voice. Her eyes analyse him quickly, she’s surprised, the cursory run-through of a skilled physician. With a sigh, she hands back the paper and proceeds to refill his tea. He slips the sketchbook back in his backpack and reaches for the steaming cup.

“It’s hot!” Sara swats his hand away. “So impatient.” There’s a tightness to her voice that wasn’t there a minute ago. There’s a heavy thing between them, a pendulum swinging over a crossroad. He can’t quite grasp what’s hiding there, coiled underneath her words – conversations are shifting sands, paper houses, _needful things_. She gathers his napkin and balances two empty dishes in one hand, prepared to leave. It’s up in the air, _words in the air_. The pendulum swings.

“I dreamt it,” he says, an olive branch extended. “I overreacted,” he adds. “Sorry.”

It is more of an equation and less of an apology, but Sara doesn’t mind. Whatever it was hanging above them is gone now. Her smile is light and her step is even lighter, she skips towards the kitchens with an absent wave of her hand. She doesn’t acknowledge his apology, but takes it captive just like she took the sketch so little time ago. He’s been coming here for years and she’s been working here for years. They are friends; a milestone acquired by virtue of pure serendipity. He reaches for his tea, staring at the city and thinking about the audacity of his situation. Three seconds pass before he retreats his hands, hissing in pain.

The tea was _hot_.

( _So impatient._ )

**iv: then, -**

_“Now, it is really important to get this right: Pygmalion does_ not _belong to Ovid._

 _“Of course, its appearance in Metamorphoses might represent the first depiction of this myth in literature, but it is certainly not the last. This myth has been the plot of many ballets during the Baroque, as our kind professor here would be delighted to elaborate. Many adaptations during the Renaissance strongly emphasize the futility and the hopelessness of Pygmalion – he fell in love with a statue, he yearns, he cries, so on and so forth; only the merciful gods can grant him his wish, naturally. Now I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that has to do with_ vanitas _. You’re smart enough to figure it out.”_

**v: now, 11:54**

Talking is not Otabek Altin’s winning trait. He’s aware of the fact that conversations with him somehow end up lacking, as if the subject discussed never gets to be properly developed. It’s not that he _hates_ talking; he just hates talking uselessly. People act as if words are the most important thing in interactions, but isn’t that the worst mistake you can make? Layers upon layers of words, a conversation within a conversation, text and subtext. A never-ending loop.

( _Shifting sands, paper houses, needful things._ )

They talked about colour theory in the morning.  Well, the teacher talked, and his classmates talked, and there were a lot of words going around as he watched. The teacher was a fresh-faced thirty-something, the same one supervising their independent work. He has yet to grow tired of the stubbornness of students like Otabek, so there’s always a hint of mischief every time he reminds them about the upcoming Critique class. _I’m sure everyone is excited to present their works_ , he says. Not everyone is excited, but everyone laughs – the agreed-upon reaction. Everyone has a different reason for laughing.

He wants to laugh _now_ , though, because it’s a funny situation no matter how you look at it. There’s him now, walking home from class, disgusted by chit-chat and baseless excuses. Picture him tomorrow, walking towards class, with no other choice but to make chit-chat and baseless excuses. He has nothing to show to Critique. Hasn’t finished anything since first year.

Pale sunlight glitters over Neva, clashing on left-over ice still floating on the water. The river cradles stories close to her depths, a quiet sort of lady. Would she cradle his story, unfinished as it is? It’s a romantic thought, becoming a story. A brooding character in a novel, Satie’s _Gnosiennes_ as his theme music. Sara could be the most charming plot device, coaxing him out of whatever tortured depths he has sunk into. At the end of the story, he would remerge anew, a whole man who’s neither lost, nor lonely, nor alone.

( _It’s a romantic thought._ )

But he can’t, this is not a fairy tale and he’s not the main character of anything. Never has, never will. He is wavering, choking, a meaningless either-or. He’s here, today, walking on a bridge as winter dies around him. He’ll be here tomorrow, still walking down this bridge, kept straight only by the city burning at his back. He can’t, mustn’t, won’t look back, or  _else_.

( _Hasn’t finished anything since first year._ )

Cloying sweet, pooled on the tip of his tongue, there are words. He sighs a long sigh, content to let them go, charcoal shavings scattered to the wind. They’re fog in the air now.

 

**vi: then, -**

_“Now, Rousseau did things a bit more differently and I admire that, surprises are nice, they keep people interested. It’s that je-ne-sais-quoi that differs excellent from legendary, as I’m sure you’re aware. Rousseau’s Pygmalion is not particularly interesting, he’s the same tortured artist in love with his creation, but his_ Galatée, _now, that’s where the difference lies. No gods are present in Rousseau’s lyrical scene, aside from some passing mentions._

_“Rousseau’s Galatée comes to life by herself.”_

__

**vii: now, 14:21**

“Hey, um… Sorry. For being an ass this morning, I mean, I get why you wouldn’t want that sort of swearing first thing in the morning,” Anton says. He’s balanced on the back legs of his chair, desk still a mess of notes, paperclips and _Teremok_ receipts. He looks to be genuinely regretful.

“That’s all right,” Otabek says, putting down his pencil on top of the open sketchbook.  His chest feels full, stuffed, as if something had grown inside him overnight and is now pressing on his ribcage. He breathes in, as quietly as he can. The air tastes of dust and old wood, his body feels alien; unmapped territory. He should probably take a nap.

( _Here be dragons._ )

“Oh, thanks for doing this for me, by the way. You’re a real life-saver,” Anton throws over his shoulder as he turns towards the desk, putting away his notes in overstuffed cardboard boxes. Stamped on the front of them was a faded, oversized logo: _Пломбир_.

It takes Otabek a moment, but he gets it eventually. He feels slow and groggy, much like a bear woken up from a long slumber. He sifts through his memories with the grace of a hulking man trudging through a snowstorm. Doing what? Life-saver why? How do you even get three industrial-size ice-cream boxes as a transfer student barely speaking Russian?

“Wait, what do you mean?” he asks.

Anton turns back towards him and the chair creaks loud in their crowded dorm room. Outside, in the hallway, even though it’s the middle of the day, some boys seem to be playing a drinking game. Anton tilts his head as if debating whether to tell him, pen spinning between his fingers, circling his knuckles. There’s that heaviness again, settling between them, another pendulum swinging above a crossroad. Only this time, Anton does not seem upset, merely concerned.

“You told me you could go to Nikiforov’s class today, take some notes for me. Feltsman arrived yesterday, you know, and he’s already giving a lecture at _Nijinsky_. I really want to catch it?” He voices it as a question, even if it isn’t.

Once, twice, a stretch of time shimmers as the pendulum keeps swinging. ( _Thanks for doing this for me_ ). Seagulls cry outside their window, cut-out wings tossed to the wind. They draw inverted arcs on a sky powdered grey, tumbling and mocking. ( _So impatient_ ).

“Ah, I remember,” he lies. He has only the vaguest idea of who Feltsman is – a choreographer, a conductor, something-something – but he knows Anton well enough to realise that he was important. “Yeah, I’ll do that after I take a nap,” he adds for good measure.

Anton doesn’t seem convinced. He doesn’t press the issue either, providing a smile a bit strained around the edges. There’s another something Otabek can’t quite grasp in his eyes, a puzzling assortment of focus and curiosity. He can read the traces of that something ever-so-easily, nestled in the glaring patch of _Cadmium Scarlet_ where Anton has been biting his lip, or the way his eyes shift from _Cadmium Lemon/Phtalo Blue_ to _Cadmium Lemon/Prussian Blue_. Colours were never challenging to him, after all. Children’s toys, a mess of pigments and shades that hardly matter by themselves.

“Are you all right?” Anton asks and maybe that something in his eyes was “concern”. “You had a really rough night. You don’t have to go if you’re not feeling well.”

Otabek shrugs, putting his sketchbook away and lying back on the bed. He closes his eyes but he can still feel the other’s eyes burrowing in his back. If only looking at something would let you understand it completely, wouldn’t that be wonderful? The truth is a fruit nobody wants to swallow, overripe and crawling with butterflies-to-be. Lying with eyes closed and heart open, keys out over his chest, would anyone even want to see what’s inside?

( _It’s a romantic thought._ )

“I’m fine, just a bit tired,” he retorts, another element in whatever equation he was solving now.

“Well you did wake up at fuck in the morning to draw _that_ again,” Anton mumbles and his chair squeaks again as he turns towards the desk. “Why do you even do that?”

He wavers; there is no right answer. He’s here and there again, suspended from a bridge with Neva lapping at his feet. Seagulls circle him, crying and squawking, hanging onto strings that flutter violent in the wind. Why does he do it?

“It helps me sleep,” he says.

“Well. Think I got some sleeping pills lying around, you’re welcome to them,” Anton offers kindly, his voice drawling over the rustling of papers and cardboard. “We’re friends, just tell me if you need help.”

He pretends to be asleep because it’s the easiest way to avoid answering questions. It’s a very kind thing for Anton to offer, but he couldn’t. He won’t.

( _…need help, or tell him?_ )

**viii: then, -**

_“Galatée brings her hand to her chest – quite the romantic gesture, I have to admit – and utters: “I” as she steps down her pedestal. Pygmalion echoes her, besides himself with joy, “I!” Understandably, he is quite shaken as she continues, “This is I” towards herself, and then towards a piece of marble: “T’is not I.” The man cannot stand it, he’s in love – and so does a gesture perfectly acceptable for a young man harbouring affections towards another person. Take notes, really, because he kisses her hand tenderly, and then she tremblingly sighs, touching his shoulder and says – “This too is I!”_

“ _This exchange is, mainly, what drove me to think about how mistaken we are in our perception of Pygmalion. Genius artist? Blessed by the gods? Or, according to Rousseau, his talent and yearning enough to bring his own creation to life?_

_“No, none of these. Pygmalion, I am quite sure, is a fool.”_

**ix:** **now, -**

It begins at night.

The house seems to be collapsing on itself, a loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon. It groans something awful each time he takes a step on the floor, wet wood sinking as if recoiling from his foot. There’s only one window, haphazardly placed on the upper right corner of the wall in front of him, glassless and barricaded with wood. It looks as if the master of this house, after finishing everything else, has suddenly remembered he needed a window.

There’s no door, so that doesn’t even make it a house, he supposes. Even prisons have doors.

First, he wonders if he’s a prisoner here. There’s no bed, no mattress, no blanket; a table is crammed under the barred window, empty and stained with something green. There’s a bar with empty bottles next to a dresser, to his right, with a single tan coat and a pillow at the bottom. It looks cold, but the room is even colder. There’s no wind outside the window, no light except a single candle in the middle of the room. An icy draft runs through the walls like blood runs through a live man’s veins.

He realises he isn’t alone. There’s a child kneeling next to the candle, blond hair pooling on the floor, playing with nesting doors. One by one the child opens them, careful as if afraid to make noise, then places the open ones to the right. There’s a soft clink as they open, and a soft tap when placed down. _Clink, tap, clink-tap._ The dolls are all the same, peasant girls in sarafans with blonde hair and exaggerated big, blue eyes.  

He never calls out to the child; he starts walking directly. The floor creaks in pain as if the house is a living thing; the child doesn’t turn, but keeps pulling dolls out of dolls with mechanical movements. _Clink, tap, clink-tap._ Otabek always stops when he sees the second-to-last doll, because that one is different. It’s a boy with black hair and big, mournful eyes, staring down. _That’s me_ , he always thinks, _I’m the second-to-last._ He doesn’t feel fear, he doesn’t feel anything. _How odd_ , he thinks. _What’s the last one then?_

The child studies it, turns _the last one_ in deft hands. Otabek can’t see anything but the child’s hair, liquid gold, flowing down a frame that was thin like a girl’s. The child turns eventually and stares up at him. An apple core rests in a pale, chubby hand, seedless and yellowed as if eaten much too long ago.

( _How odd_ , _he thinks._ )

It ends when he wakes up, sweating, heart trashing in his chest and clothes sticking to his body. The sounds slither in his mind long after it’s all over. _Clink, tap_. _Clink-tap._

**x: then, -**

_“And Pygmalion, exactly because he is a fool, cannot get enough. He’s you, and you, and possibly you. Okay, you might not be Pygmalion, but will be sometimes in the future. I’ve been Pygmalion, maybe I still am Pygmalion. I look at my art and say – this is the best I can do when I know that’s not true. You know it’s not true. The world knows it’s not true but oh well, does that matter to me? Not really, you might say, because I keep doing it. Over and over again. Why do I do that?_

_“What’s that word you call someone who does the same thing over and over and expects another result?”_

 

**xi: now, 16:36**

It is strange to be back in this classroom. He can almost see himself… _there_ , the second seat from the right, middle row. He had sat there a year ago, for another class and at another hour, fidgeting with everything that fell into his hands – his notebook, his pen, eraser, pencil, the sleeves of his shirt. Around him, gossip thrived like a living thing, stretching and curling around desks and backpacks, slithering _did-you-hear_ and _can-you-believe-it_ and _I-heard-he-does-this_. He did hear, he didn’t believe it, and he hoped their teacher wouldn’t do that.

Their teacher ended up doing exactly that. At least ten minutes late, he took the stage with palpable disinterest, tossing his fur coat on the podium and daintily slipping his ermine hat off. Hair the colour of steel blades spilled onto his shoulders as he looked up at the bunch of them, measuring their worth. A smirk bloomed on his face, sharp and beautiful and _it did not look at all like a smile_. He had been breath-taking.

Now, he is _late_.

This classroom is only used for first-years. Naturally, the state of casual gossip is much alike to what it had been a year ago, maybe worse. There’s a girl stretching from her seat in the bottom row up… what looks like one or two other rows to get to her friend, which seems a bit counter-productive when you think gossip should be a bit discrete. Nevertheless, this collective beast quickly hides when the doors to the classroom open, momentarily spooked.

Professor Nikiforov enters the classroom as if it’s either a runway or the road to his coronation. He appears to be humming a ballad or another, shrugging off his trench coat and leaving his scarf on top of the podium. There’s no hat this time, so he raises his eyes directly to them.  _“Good evening, class,”_ he began a year ago. It’s so easy to pull his voice back, crystal clear from the depths of his mind. _“Today I’m supposed to talk to you about Ancient Art. Now, I’ve read this wonderful paper on interpreting Greek mythology so we can start with Pygmalion and Galatea and see where that leads, shall we?”_

It’s surprising to feel tense as he watches Nikiforov pass a hand through his hair, lips curled into a smirk because _he knows_. Everyone is there because of him, they're hanging onto his words whether they want it or not. Carefully, Otabek pulls out the voice recorder and turns it on, settling it in his lap. He watches, as he is supposed to. He does what he knows because, well, he is here for a reason.

“Good evening, class,” he begins and it's like every other time up until this one. His voice is the same, a bite of peach encased in an ice cube. “Now, we’re supposed to talk about the Renaissance, but I believe we should first talk about…”

He stifles a sigh, tension diffusing. The taste in his mouth is a bitter-sweet surprise because _really_ , what did he expect? Did he think Viktor Nikiforov changed during what, a few months of autumn and what counted for summer in Russia? He keeps doing it, the same thing again, over and over and it's _stupid_. Content to stay stuck, he expects the world to move him on her own. There are sketches lying at the bottom of his backpack, crammed and forgotten, ready to burn a hole through the bottom of it.

( _What’s that word you call someone…?_ )

Ah, he’s a _fool._

__

**xii: then, -**

_“Precisely. That's the one."_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> В Питере - пить : In Peter (St. Petersburg), you drink. ([x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ugivNRYfjc))  
> Пломбир - Plombir, Russian ice cream  
> Teremok - A Russian fast-food chain specialised in blini (Russian crepes) ([x](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Teremok))
> 
> As for artworks directly referenced, that's Michelangelo's _[Leah](http://www.womeninthebible.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/Leah_Michelangelo-1.jpg)_ , _Moses_ and _[Pieta](http://www.italianrenaissance.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/Michelangelo-pieta.jpg)_ for sculptures. Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ , Bocaccio's _Decameron_ and Rousseau's _Pygmalion_ for written works. For music, we have Satie's _[Gnossiennes](https://youtu.be/5pyhBJzuixM?t=24m38s)_ (and Leningrad's _In Peter, You Drink_ lol). Also, a whole lot of colours.
> 
>  _"...paper houses"_ : reference to _"All those paper people in their paper house burning the future to stay warm"_ from John Green, _Paper Towns ___  
>  _"...needful things"_ : shameless reference to Stephen King's _Needful Things_  
>  _"...the city burning at his back"_ : reference to [Lot's wife](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lot%27s_wife)


End file.
